


Tangled Thoughts

by nbdisasterlyf



Category: Original Work
Genre: Depersonalization, Gen, I'm not ok but it's cool it's fine it's chill don't worry about it, Mild Gore, POV Second Person, Stream of Consciousness, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, read with caution tbh, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26979274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nbdisasterlyf/pseuds/nbdisasterlyf
Summary: You feel less than real.
Kudos: 2





	Tangled Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> not proofread-ed at all. again.

You feel less than real. It’s your own fault really, how can you really expect to live so much of your life submerged in fiction and still feel real. Fiction is easy. Fiction is safe. Fiction is a coping mechanism. You’ve been spending a lot of time there recently. That’s probably why you feel like this. This feels horrible. You need something to help you cope with this. You turn to fiction. Fiction is safe. Fiction is familiar. You feel less real.

It’s supper time. You’re at the table. You’re in your head. You’re somewhere else. All three of these statements are true. You think about yourself. You take this “self” and roll it around in your hands, examining it. You let go of it. Fiction takes over again and you let yourself not be you for a bit. Does it help? You look at yourself again. You think about the state your in. You think about dying. You think about how many times you’ve thought about your own death. You think about which one of these stories will actually happen. Some of them are impossible of course. You’ll never pry open your ribcage like a mussel, you’ll never have your head squeezed until it pops. But some of them are possible. Or maybe by some comedic twist of fate it’ll be something even you could have ever imagined. You keep eating your supper.

“Anyone have something they’re thankful for?” You think about it. You can’t think. You’re reading your own thoughts. My coping mechanism? No, you aren’t thankful for your coping mechanism. It’s horrible. You need a coping mechanism to cope with your coping mechanism. You keep eating your supper. You listen to the conversation. Something about electricity. You find a new way to imagine dying. You pick it up. You roll it around in your hands. You put it down. You pick it up again. You store it away with the rest. You take a moment to look at the contents of that mental box. You finish up your supper. You chug rest of your water through your last mouthful of food. You go back to your room.

You write down your thoughts, a slightly disjointed stream of consciousness that almost seems to be trying too hard to be eloquent. It’s almost funny, how it all can be laid out on a page like this, how you can be laid out on a page like this. But here you are. On the page. Black and white and black and white and black and white glowing on a screen. Is it comforting? Is it terrifying? Now you really aren’t real, are you? You’re just a narrative on a page. Laid out for someone else to read. Is that someone else real? Is this just some strange loop of fiction consuming fiction? You stare at yourself.

You’ll post this, after all what is a narrative if it’s never read. You imagine posting this. You imagine sharing this, looking for validation. You imagine receiving what validation you might get. You imagine receiving the lack of validation you might get. You imagine being shunned, being hated, being kicked out because you’re hurting people, you’re making them uncomfortable. You imagine playing the victim and being hated even more for it. You imagine becoming another person they loathe long after you’re gone for what you put them through with your behavior. You imagine taking the whole thing well and parting ways but having there never be any resentment between you. It’s hard and sad and they wish you the best but it has to be done. You imagine the scenario where few people read it and even fewer bother to click a button to let you know they liked it. You can’t blame them. This is dark and heavy content and not everyone can stomach it. It still stings though. You wanted validation. But you can’t blame them. You can blame yourself. You imagine your regret of having posted this. Is there even a point in posting this now? You’ll probably just regret over sharing it, ever opening your mouth.

This is too heavy, too personal. In fact, why are you still reading this? Why are you continuing to look into me like this? What do you gain from it? What do you want from me? Are you enjoying this? That’s a bit messed up. Sorry, that was harsh. Please keep reading. Please say this was good, that you enjoyed it. I need validation. I need to be known. But I don’t want to be known. But else can I do.

What else can you do but be know. A narrative must be known. And that is what you are, right? Do you know what you are? Do you know who you are? Do you want to know? Who are you? You are you. You are real. You are fiction. You’re so simple. You can’t even make sense of yourself. You feel less than real. You feel fine. You feel like someone else. You feel like you. You feel like a narrative on a page. You feel like an author. You are the reader. You are the writer. You are the story. You are…….

Post.


End file.
